


The Winter Comes

by proskynesis



Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 06:39:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18463532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proskynesis/pseuds/proskynesis
Summary: Winter, 327 B.C.E., the Macedonian base camp at Nautaca: Spitamenes and Dataphernes are dead and the rebellion has been put down, but there are more battles to be fought.





	The Winter Comes

Hephaestion was no more than forty stades from the city when he became aware of Alexander's return. They had just cleared the foothills, tired, cold and hungry but sure of a roof, a fire and warm food tonight if nothing else, when a flushed page came pounding up to them from an outcrop of rocks nearby. He reigned in so hard that he almost lost his seat when the horse slid on the ice. Hephaestion signed to the rest of the company to halt.

"Hephaestion," the page said, when he had back enough breath. His horse was still dancing as he wrestled with the reins. "I've been sent out to find you. The king—"

Hephaestion cut him off. "—is back. So I see. I hope he was properly welcomed?"

"Yes, sir. Quarters have been arranged for the army."

"Good. Ride ahead and let them know we're coming."

The youth nodded, his too-large felt cap falling further over his eyes. The horse's flanks quivered in the chill air. Then both were gone in a flurry of dirty snow.

Before long even through the drizzle they could see Nautaca's smoke smudging the horizon. The sudden increase of population was evident; Hephaestion could see hundreds and hundreds more tiny black figures moving around on the flat land under the city walls. It was not an ideal place – it was far too small for half the Macedonian army, never mind its additions and dependents as well – but he had done his best. It hadn’t helped to have the expelled ex-satrap sat on their doorstep harrying their every movement from his well-defended mountain fortress, but Alexander had soon showed up and put paid to that. Now supplies were coming in well from the surrounding area and they’d been able to get hold of some good quality horses, used to the steppe country; enough to replace their own, half-starved and weary from the two-year campaign. He watched his own breath fog in front of him as they began the descent, and listened to the men two lines back talking quietly amongst themselves, their voices muffled by the wet air and sounds of horses. It would do for the winter.

Little over an hour later Hephaestion was on his way to the king's quarters. As soon as he got back into the city he had done the rounds of those he had left in charge, to make sure nothing had gone amiss in his short absence. They were some petty arguments and accusations to sort out, but that was nothing new; apart from some wounded pride there was nothing of concern. Hephaestion saw the newcomers and exchanged a few words with Ptolemy, but did not stop to talk.

There was barely anyone around in the squat old satrap's house that now served as the makeshift royal quarters, which surprised him. Alexander was not in the main hall, and a single royal page was standing guard by the heavy cedarwood door of the bedchamber. 

Hephaestion glanced at him. It was Euxenippos, he thought. The boy was one of the younger pages, just growing into his looks. Though he personally considered the boy too girlish by half, he could see why Alexander was interested.

"Is the king inside?" Hephaestion asked, hands at his belt, like he always did when he was nervous.

Euxenippos kept his eyes on the floor as he answered. Hephaestion noticed that he had a fresh campaign scar just over his left eye. "Yes, sir. He's in the bath." 

"Very well." Hephaestion pushed open the door and went inside.

Alexander had evidently finished his bath some time ago, though his hair was still damp. He was being helped into a clean chiton and turned with an expression of irritation on his face at being interrupted without even an announcement. He relaxed when he saw it was Hephaestion.

"I did wonder when you would turn up," he said in a mild voice as he pulled the chiton down and shook out his hair.

Hephaestion smiled easily and hauled a chair across to the fireside. "Good health to you." 

Alexander signed to the two pages to leave and moved across the room, pulling on a cloak as he did so. Despite the close heat of the fire in the small low-roofed room it was deep winter at the foot of the Hindu Kush and snow was now ankle-depth outside and still falling. He took Hephaestion by the shoulders. They embraced briefly and then sat down. 

"I’m sorry I wasn't here to greet you. I took a troop out to a town nearby; the leader sent to the city offering food and various other supplies in exchange for alliance", said Hephaestion. Alexander poured him out a cup of wine from the mixer on the table. It was, Hephaestion noticed, already half empty, but he did not comment. He accepted the cup. "It was straight diplomacy, really, but I thought it might be worthwhile for them to see some soldiers. We can't be too careful."

Alexander nodded. "We set out two days ago and came up the long way, from the south. A good journey on the whole. I left Perdiccas behind to arrange a garrison. Craterus is still out in the desert, mopping up what's left of the nomads, and the last I heard Coenus has had some trouble, but, like I said in the last letter, I think it's over. Now we just lay up for the winter and wait for the weather to change." He narrowed his eyes and stared into the red of the fire.

They sat in comfortable silence and drank down the wine. Hephaestion tried his best to watch Alexander from the corner of his eye; he knew that if he was caught looking then Alexander would not be best pleased. The last time Hephaestion had seen him was as he had ridden out three months ago in the middle of the worst of it. Spitamenes had been at the walls of Bactra, with the Scythians thronging at the borders just waiting for an opportunity to attack, the local nobility ready to turn at a moment’s notice. Hephaestion had not seen him since; he’d been busy putting the new towns to order, and Alexander had been stuck up in the mountains bringing the hill forts to heel. Now he looked even more thin and drawn, and tired, with great shadows under his eyes, but Hephaestion knew things were better. Spitamenes was dead, Dataphernes delivered in chains, the rebellion well and truly crushed. Alexander was the acknowledged king of the eastern provinces. It had been a long hard campaign, but Alexander was right. It was over.

"Gods," Alexander said quietly, putting down his wine cup. "How I needed that bath. I had thought I would never be clean again." 

He took up a comb of crudely carved bone from the tabletop and began to pull it through his wet hair. It snagged; he clenched his jaw and dragged it free almost viciously. 

"Here." Hephaestion reached across and took the comb. "I'll do it." 

Alexander looked at him in astonishment, and Hephaestion knew that had he been more awake and less full of wine then he would have had a fight on his hands. As it was, he was victorious. Alexander let Hephaestion comb his hair. He jerked and hissed a few times at the pain, however gentle Hephaestion was, but in the end he shifted backwards, pushing up into Hephaestion’s hands like a dog, like a tame cat. 

Hephaestion’s heart beat a little higher in his chest and he carded a hand through the damp curls, brushing them out onto Alexander's neck. His hand faltered over a raised scar just above Alexander's right collarbone. It was new to him, fresh; a memory of the vicious summer campaign. Hephaestion ran his thumb over it absently and watched the shadows cast by the fire lick their way up the far wall. By the gods, he knew it was a bad omen to even think on it, but he couldn't help himself. Had it been but a little higher— He cleared his throat suddenly and moved his hand to push the hair back from Alexander's forehead.

"It needs cutting. Winter is a bad time for lice."

His voice was rougher than he'd intended. Alexander gave a soft snort. The fire popped and spat from the damp wood. Hephaestion dropped a hand to the small of Alexander's back and brought the comb up in the other up to untangle the hair at Alexander's nape. 

But Alexander twisted round. He seized his hand and brought it captive to his chest. 

"Now, Hephaestion. You did not come here to play at barbers."

Not for the first time, Hephaestion felt he was almost drowning in the closeness of that gaze. He smiled as if discovered. "No."

"Nor is there a problem with the supplies for the city, so you haven’t come to talk to me about that."

"And how do you know that? Can you trust to the reports you have been receiving?"

Alexander grinned. "I can trust to _you_ , I know that at least. But there is something you came to tell me. I know it."

Hephaestion made a sound of acquiescence and pulled away. He paced a couple of times in front of the fire.

"Tell me. Hephaestion."

Hephaestion knew an order when he heard one and inwardly cursed Alexander and his ability to read him like a book. He scrubbed a hand down his face. 

"Alright. But I wanted to leave this for later.” He sighed. “There's been some disagreement between the officers."

Alexander's face remained impassive.

"There’s been talk. I haven’t heard much, of course, but I’ve heard enough. Certain of the Macedonians don't want their command shared." A pause. "They don't want their command shared with Persians. They don't like your taking on the Persian cavalry either, and especially not this idea you have for training up Persian youths as Macedonian soldiers. They think you mean to replace them. They say you're sending home the Macedonians, sending the officers off where they're no good use, like—"

Their eyes met over the table.

"Like Cleitus," said Alexander, unnaturally calm. Hephaestion knew he could never forgive himself for not being there that night. Ptolemy assured him nothing could have been done, but the very idea still gnawed at him when he lay alone in bed at night thinking he could hear shrill laughter nearby. He gave a stiff nod.

"Yes. They're not happy, especially the older ones. I'm sure someone has been stirring it up. I'm just not sure who. Some of the younger ones” – the idiot, devoted, hero-worshipping ones, Hephaestion thought, not without a twinge of annoyance – “they’ve taken it badly. It’s not helped that we’re penned up in here with nothing to do but argue and stew and then argue some more. Sometimes I thought I would have to break up a fight.” 

Alexander swore through his teeth.

"It's only some of them. And it’s not as if they’re wanting you gone. I swear it, it’s never been like that, and if it had I would have done something. They’re just... not happy. With this Medising, as they’re calling it."

Hephaestion waited in uneasy silence. He hadn't mentioned the few whispers that had reached him that Alexander had been corrupted by the silks and gold of Babylon and had become an Eastern tyrant in increasingly Persian dress who cut off the ears and noses of those who opposed him. There was talk of Philotas and Parmenion as well, and that was worse. 

But Alexander probably knew of all this. Hephaestion was telling him nothing new. He watched as Alexander groaned and took a deep drink from the wine cup.

"It was like this on campaign as well. Mostly they pulled together, but you could tell, some of them were so sullen and it had nothing to do with how the fight was going. I wanted to confront them, but it just wasn't worth it. I don't know why. I thought they would accept it in the end. How am I supposed to rule like this? What am I supposed to _do_?"

The cup slammed down onto the table, splattering wine. Hephaestion didn’t even flinch. It was best to let the storm ride itself out. 

"Must they be so stubborn? We are in the middle of a campaign. The cavalry are needed; we cannot fight against this enemy with what we have, it's tactically impossible. But it's not just that. I must rule these people; I am the successor to Darius and I must rule as his successor. How else will they ever obey me? I am King of Asia. _They_ " – he waved his hand dismissively – "they must see this. We are in the east, not _Macedon_."

"But to them you are king of Macedon first."

"What would you have me do?" Alexander scowled. He threw himself back in his chair and picked moodily at the embroidered fabric on his cloak.

"It's not a question of that."

"I cannot afford this. If they, if the enemy, were to see weakness, just once—"

If they were to see weakness, yet another dissatisfied Persian would take on the upright tiara and declare himself as true king. Yet another hard year's campaigning against remote hill forts and enemies that became allies and then enemies again as soon as the main army left. Perhaps this time without success. 

Hephaestion felt rather hopeless and could think of little else to say but, "We must be careful, it is true."

Alexander was still breathing hard through his nose. He made a sharp gesture with his right arm as if he meant to strike something, then calmed. He poured himself out more wine.

"Hephaestion. Do you remember when we read the Poet for the first time?"

How could I ever forget, thought Hephaestion. Alexander's eyes bright in the cold sun of Mieza, his finger skating unevenly along the parchment and his lips moving through the words as he read his destiny.

"Back then I used to hate Agamemnon. I thought he was a boor and a coward, the very opposite of Achilles. He did not understand Achilles at all, and I hated him for it. Now I've realized that sometimes it's far harder to be Agamemnon than it is to be Achilles."

The wretched look in his eyes said, _And now I must be both_.

You need only ever be Alexander, thought Hephaestion with a desperate surge of love, but said nothing. 

"I've spoken with Artabazus. He thinks the best plan is to keep on with trying to show them that I am a proper Persian king. We have to win them over before we do anything else, or we’ll be going into India with a pack of wolves behind us."

Hephaestion nodded. India now, was it?

"The question is how to go about it. I feel we need a grand gesture. Artabazus means me to marry a Persian," mused Alexander. "He has mentioned it more than once, after that incident with the Scythian leader. I'm quite sure he's looking for me to take Barsine as my first wife..." Hephaestion raised his eyebrows mildly. "But it will not do. It will not work. I'm fond of her, but she is far too Greek, and it serves no purpose. If I must marry a Persian then it should really be one of the daughters of Darius. That should make most sense."

"They are young yet," Hephaestion added.

"Yes. And besides, there is no need for now. Whereas at the moment, here, in Sogdia, a marriage alliance would be far more useful. If I married into one of their families they might accept me more as a rightful lord and less as a foreign conqueror."

Alexander was clearly pleased with this idea. And why not, thought Hephaestion. It made perfect sense. Almost. He leaned forward in his chair. "And the Macedonians?"

"You never know. It might also placate them. They always were on at me to get an heir." He pulled a sour face. "It might make them realize the reality of the situation. If they had their way we'd be putting half the remaining towns in Sogdia to the sword and the other half in chains, and we'd have a full-scale revolt on our hands again before the turn of the year. We're already unpopular as it is, with all the massacres. It was well enough to act like that when we were faced by a rebellion, but it's over now and we have to go about winning the local nobility as best we can. Apparently some of them have already inquired privately as to why my own men do not do me obeisance. Gods. If only someone would explain the stubbornness of Macedonians to them! I'm sure Cyrus never had these problems."

"You must think of both sides, Alexander. There is no point courting the Persians at the risk of losing the Macedonians."

"But you said yourself there is no danger of them wanting rid of me. They’re just sulking. They should learn soon enough that I am not king of them alone."

"Alexander, you’re not a fool. We're in a difficult position here. The army's not happy, after the mountain crossing and that godforsaken desert. And that’s only half of it. It’s like living in a cage here; whenever we turn our backs up springs another local ruler who thinks he can make good from our absence, though he smiled to our fronts when he swore allegiance. The men, they love you, but you know as well as I do that more kings of Macedon have died with a knife at their throat than in their own beds. You’re playing a risky game. And these officers we’re talking of, they are not many, but these are not men to be lightly disregarded, and if you willingly provoke them—"

Alexander snapped back, "And how many Persian kings have died the same way? When Darius could no longer keep his throne and be seen to be keeping it they left him to die alone in a wagon in the middle of the desert. I tell you, Hephaestion, he did not look a Great King then! Do I want to end up the same way? I need to gain their loyalty! Or this whole campaign, it’ll be for nothing. I did not come here to run back to Greece with my tail between my legs because some few in the Macedonian high command are incapable of compromise and following orders. The only way to win these people over is to show them beyond doubt that they can trust me."

Hephaestion sighed. "You're right. You're right. But by the dark depths of Hades itself, this is an impossible choice."

"I seem to have made the right ones so far. Let us trust to hope."

They were quiet for some time. The hushed noises of the pages swapping guard duty outside the door were clearly audible, and a log settled on the fire and sent up a flurry of sparks. 

Hephaestion looked up. "You cannot be considering wearing the trousers..."

"What? Of course not!" The look on Alexander's face was almost comical in its surprise. "But I must make some concessions. How am I to rule as King of all Asia in a chiton and kausia? I must look a king to them, in terms they will accept. I asked Artabazus to come up with a suitable costume; he knows Greeks and Persians well enough to steer a middle course. Besides, I have already worn the diadem and the royal purple and little was said of that."

"Hmm. They may not forgive you the tiara."

"Damn them. Damn their ignorance." He could be a petulant boy when he got like this.

"I would not say that to Craterus if I were you."

" _Damn_ you and Craterus!"

"You know he will not approve."

"I shall speak with him. He will see sense. He is not an idiot."

Hephaestion snorted as loudly as he dared.

"Hephaestion." Sharply, but with no real anger.

"Alright. But you truly mean to ask obeisance of them? Of Macedonians? They will not take to it well, I can tell you that. And what would the Greeks say?"

"Oh, the Greeks!” Alexander curled his lip scornfully. “It is nothing more than a ceremonial. A court ritual."

Hephaestion was minded to smile. This was the man who had thrown his spear into the beach at Troy and burned the great pillared hall at Persepolis to ashes in a night. There was ceremony and spectacle in it, certainly, but nothing was ever done without good reason with Alexander. He meant something by it, always. 

Alexander was looking at him. The air in the room was hazed with smoke but the thought passed between them as clearly as if it had been spoken. His eyes seemed to say, to almost plead, _And why not. Why should I not ask for this. Have I not done enough yet? Is it not proved?_ If he had desired it, Hephaestion would gladly have told him yes, a hundred times over and more. Once again, he desperately wished he knew what had been said in the holy dark and frankincense reek of the temple at Siwah, but secretly he knew that such knowledge would be little more than confirmation of what he was already deeply certain of. 

Alexander sighed and the moment broke. "But you're right. I cannot ask it of them. At least not now. But I must do something. I should introduce it in parts, perhaps, like the costume."

"Proskynesis in parts?" Hephaestion’s tone was skeptical at best.

"Yes. I have been thinking, if they do the bow – the short bow, that is – and the kiss, then approach me and receive a kiss in return... A kiss to recognize them as equals, as in Macedon. They cannot argue so much with a kiss for a kiss, at least. It would make sense to the Persians and Sogdians as well. And I would let them all know beforehand. It really would just be a ceremony. Not a big one, maybe a small drinking party with the high command and some others. Just to get them used."

Hephaestion considered. He knew there was no use arguing and that this discussion had gone as far as it was likely to go, at least for tonight. "If you must do anything, then that would probably be best. I shall talk with Anaxarchus. He can arrange something." He drained his cup and stared at the tabletop while the fire spat some more. "I shall be first, though?"

"Of course. When are you otherwise?"

"Then I had best start practising, I suppose." He smirked, then stood. "I should go. Doubtless everyone will have been rushing around the city trying to run me to ground for this past hour so they can discuss supplies and billeting. Do you want anyone sending in?" 

Alexander did not answer. He was staring after Hephaestion strangely, his eyes bright with the fire and something else. 

"What is it?"

"Practice once now. For me."

Hephaestion very nearly laughed, but he caught himself in time. Alexander was not joking. Those who knew him less well had often remarked – far from his hearing, mind – that he would make a first-rate actor. But that wasn’t it. Hephaestion knew that Alexander could not play a part he knew to be false. He meant this, just as he had meant Troy and the knot in Gordium and the temple at Siwah. Whatever it was, this was not for show alone.

And he was worried. He was _scared_. Not even those closest to him, not even Hephaestion saw this side at all often, but there it was now. This revolt had shaken him worse than Hephaestion had ever realised. The men may spit and grumble in their huts about how they’d rather be anyplace on earth than this desolate steppeland where they found enemies at every turn and all allies were turncoats, and ask why, for all the gods’ sake, they had crossed mountains and desert and fought and died for this. But Alexander was their king; he knew all this, and, as the officers and generals bickered about him, turning their anger on each other, on the Persian newcomers, and finally on him, he asked himself the same question. 

Who knew what he had said in reply. They were a long way from the splendors of Babylon and Susa.

Hephaestion's heart beat faster. All this wasn't just an issue of proskynesis, of political expediency. It wasn’t even Alexander asking them to prove they trusted him. He was asking them to prove that they still believed. And he was asking Hephaestion first. _When are you otherwise?_

Hephaestion swallowed and nodded. Alexander was offering his very soul to do as he would with it, and he could never refuse him this.

He had seen the Persians do this, many times, and, one memorable time, had been on the receiving end of it, courtesy of the royal family. His spine prickled; obeisance was for the gods, not the living. But Alexander needed this. He took a step forward, towards Alexander, blew the kiss, and then went down to one knee, then the other, careful to do it with as much grace as he possibly could. From this position he bowed forward until his head touched the floor, and waited. There was silence. 

He stood up slowly and walked forwards. Alexander’s eyes were still shining. He was also clearly shocked.

"Hephaestion, you did not have to do—"

"Do I not get my kiss?" 

For just a second, he thought Alexander was going to smile. Instead he knit his fingers in Hephaestion’s hair and pulled him down, drawing Hephaestion's lips to his in a firm kiss. They remained still, nothing but the sound of their breathing. Then Alexander whispered "thank you", so quietly Hephaestion could never be sure he hadn’t imagined it, and yanked their mouths back together, properly this time. 

Hephaestion kissed him back fiercely, wanting Alexander to know that he’d go with him to the ends of the world if he had to, wanting him to know what an idiot he’d been to even think otherwise, wanting him to know that nothing had ever felt so right in all his life. Alexander breathed deep and hid his face against Hephaestion’s neck. Hephaestion stroked roughly through his hair. He didn't know what else to do. He almost felt like crying.

"Alexander. I would do anything. Anything—"

He pushed Alexander backwards, towards the bed, and then down, so that he was seated on the edge.

Then, to Alexander's great surprise, he went down on his knees again.

Alexander held out his hands to stop him. "Hephaestion, it is not—", he said desperately, twisting away. 

But Hephaestion was insistent. "Let me. Please." His voice almost broke.

His eyes were dark and hot as he pushed aside the chiton. He moved his hands to the back of Alexander's thighs, holding him firmly, stroking absently with his thumbs. When he pulled himself closer and breathed over Alexander's skin, Alexander's hands came up on either side of him, involuntarily, with a bitten back groan and a shiver that travelled all the way down his body. Hephaestion felt the hands settle on his shoulders, gripping hard. He listened to Alexander's breaths, already starting to come shallow and unsteady, and smiled as the hands finally slid up into his hair where they pulled tight and then relaxed. 

Hephaestion licked slowly at the juncture of Alexander's thighs; he wasn't about to give Alexander exactly what he wanted first off, display of obedience though this was supposed to be. 

"Oh, Hephaestion. No, you cannot—" Alexander moaned, and tried to push him away again, but Hephaestion pinned him down harder onto the bed and took as much of him into his mouth as was possible. Alexander jerked upwards with a sharp cry like he'd been shot then curled back on himself with a sob. Hephaestion hummed his approval and worked his mouth and tongue around Alexander as best he could. He’d not done this before, not properly, not since they were boys. Above him Alexander was hissing and growling and making odd choked off noises as he shuddered and squirmed against the furs on the bed. 

He pulled off and licked at his lips. His head felt light. He crawled onto the bed. Alexander was flushed and panting beneath him, staring up with those pale eyes like he was looking at some god. The world seemed to stop.

Then Alexander clenched down around him, his thighs shaking. 

“Yes, Hephaestion. Do it.”

Hephaestion moaned and began to thrust. It was so tight, so hot, with Alexander still oiled and slick from the bath. He bit gently onto Alexander’s shoulder to stop himself from crying out. Alexander had his fingernails in the heavy embroidery of the coverlet and now he was bucking himself against the weight of the bed in time with Hephaestion. Hephaestion reached down between them and Alexander came all over his fist, his teeth clenched and his head back. Hephaestion pulled out from between Alexander’s thighs and managed only a few strokes before finishing with a rough shout himself. He collapsed forwards with a grunt. 

After what seemed like an age he made to move, to get the wine from the table, but Alexander grasped him by the hand.

"Stay."

"Is that an order?"

Alexander smiled and rolled closer to him. "It can be, if you like."

They kissed, Alexander shuddering slightly at the taste. Hephaestion brushed the hair back from his forehead and Alexander made a small noise of content. He took up Alexander’s right hand and ran his fingers lightly over the royal ring he found there. He didn't know what to say, but it was enough.

It was only once Alexander was sound asleep, looking more at peace than he had for a good while, that Hephaestion dared leave. On the way out he told the pages to be quiet; the king was sleeping.

**Author's Note:**

> The exact chronology and the historical details used as the basis for this are all wildly debatable. I just did the best I could with them.


End file.
